


Sung

by BlueWithHappiness



Series: Calls and Songs [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Background - Freeform, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, Music, Rejection, Soul Bond, Thorin is an oblivious moron, Thorin is seriously an idiot, fading, gold-sickness, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueWithHappiness/pseuds/BlueWithHappiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin stopped hearing his Heart-Song after the fall of Erebor. Due to his duties and responsibilities, he had not wanted to seek neither his Heart-Singer or his One. Unfortunately for him, the universe doesn't care and hands him both wrapped in one neat package on a silver plate. Except, in true Thorin Oakenshield style, he messes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sung

**Author's Note:**

> Dear commenter who wanted more; Are you sure?
> 
> Still dedicated to my buddy who let's me babble. Thanks!

Frerin had been a bard. As the spare, he’d been allowed to choose his craft and profession with far more variety than either Thorin, the heir, and Dis, the Princess, would ever be allowed too. As a youth, Thorin had been fairly carefree, and though he took his duties and responsibilities as crown prince seriously, there was no doubt that he envied his free spirited younger brother. Though he could not say he envied the way everyone compared them, and nearly always found Frerin somehow lacking(which was something which always stumped Thorin, and Frerin had may have been an annoyance usually, he was far better with both problem solving and diplomacy than Thorin ever could dream to be), there were times, a lot of times, he wished he had been the spare.

Not for that, while Frerin would have been amazing, he was not king material. To crown him would be like cutting the wings of a bird. Frerin always managed to be so cheerful and bright because he was not weighed down with the duties and lessons Thorin had to deal with.

But if there was one thing Thorin envied the most about Frerin, it had to be his profession. Frerin was a born musician, able to tell stories without words and play music without instruments. While he might not be one for letters and numbers, or mining, he was a genius when it came to enhancing an audience with his voice alone.

Thorin would never be able to do anything like that. His voice was deep, and he would eventually be able to wield it like a weapon, to encourage, to hold speeches, to command and to persuade. But he could never sing, could not resonate with rocks or people the way Frerin did.

Their mother had been like Thorin, at that. Which was why he learned the harp on her knee. Frerin never learned the harp, too full of energy. Dis tried, but her fingers were often too strong, too ungentle, and would break the strings. Thorin learned all there was to know about the harp. Perhaps that was one of the main reasons why he never begrudged Frerin being a bard, not too much, at least.

Thorin was seventeen when he dreamt his Heart-Song for the first time. A voice lighter than any dwarrow, clearer than any dam. If anyone had ever asked him to describe it, he would tell them that to compare his Heart-Singer to a common dwarf would be like comparing a songbird to a crow. Impossible to describe with words, impossible to comprehend, even to himself. Never had he heard a more beautiful sound, and when Erebor fell, he doubted he ever would.

Heart-Songs could only be heard properly when the heart itself was at peace. The fall of Erebor tore any peace Thorin had away. It hardened his heart, he shielded himself, knowing that he was but a poor prince without a kingdom now. What right did he have to seek out his Heart-Singer? What right did he have to put poverty and the shame of an exiled Prince as someone’s Heart? None. So he put any thoughts of his Heart-Singer away.

And despite Dís’s best attempts, Thorin even put the idea of finding a One away. A dwarf’s Heart-Singer and their One rarely were the same. Few ever found their Heart-Singer, some didn't even have one, so those who desired companionship sought a One instead. Dwarves being as they were, they only fell in love once. Sure, they might crush and such, like any other race, but they only fell in love once. And even if that one person rejected them, the love would stay, enduring all hardships and cliffs, never ending and never lessening. Of course, with the near all consuming love dwarves felt for their One(or Heart-Singer, should they ever find them) most dwarves preferred to tend to their craft or profession instead.

When Frerin died, Thorin put his harp away. Never intending to play for another soul ever again.

When Fili and Kili were old enough though, Thorin was almost tempted to pull it out, to teach them, but he did not have the time, nor did they have the tempers for it, so his harp kept gathering dust. He only pulled it out when no one was near, and he had an afternoon or a morning free(which was rare), to keep his skills up and to ensure the harp was still functional. To do anything less would have been a blight to his mother’s memory, and while he had tried to sell the harp several times(it was made of pure gold, but Dís always stopped it, or bought it back), it was not something he wanted to do. Blight his mother’s memory, that is.

Then he brought it forth during their stay with the halfling.

He had not known why, at the time, and had excused it away with his company being so cheerful and happy, them all having a full stomach and the fact that it might just be the last time he could play. It had amused, and saddened him that neither Fili nor Kili had known he could play, and had almost immediately demanded lessons. He told them that if they managed to survive this quest, and their mother did not kill him for bringing them, then yes, he would teach them, should they still wish for it.

He had been fairly relieved when the halfling had refused to come, and been confused over the fear that had gripped him when the halfling came running, contract in hand. The confusion quickly became anger, the fear covering his insides like ashes in a chimney. He feared for the halfling, more than he feared for any other member of his company. He felt irrational desire whenever his eyes caught the indecent high cut of the halfling's trousers, his bare feet, how tight his clothes sat on him. The fear and desire fed his confusion, which in turn fed his anger.

He took the anger out on the halfling, of course. Harsh glances, sharp words, cutting rudeness. He loathed the way his eyes constantly strayed to the halfling, how his mind seemed to more interested in the way his plump rear looked, spread across the saddle as they rode, than which road was the safest, and quietest, to travel.

He felt his resentment erode on that blasted cliff. When the hobbit stood between him and Azog. Foolishly, bravely standing between Thorin and certain death. The hug that followed, was impulsive and far out of his comfort zone(he really wasn't a hugging person). But as short as it had been, Thorin recognised, in that moment, why Bilbo bothered him so much.  

Somehow, Thorin Oakenshield, had fallen completely for a being almost two heads shorter than him. Bilbo Baggins was his One.

The admission, even to himself, felt bitter in his mouth. Nevertheless, he did whatever he could to treat him kindly. Or at least, kinder, than he had. The halfling, however, seemed to ignore that, and continued to treat Thorin with weary politeness, just as he had before. It filled him with rage and jealousy to watch the halfling be friendly with the other dwarves, and how they all seemed awfully tactile with the him. Shoulder hugs, pats on his back or arm, and the almost clinging hugs he would give, or receive, from Fili, Ori, Kili and Bofur.

As such, the manner Beorn rarely let Bilbo walk on his own, and the clear crush the skin-shifter had on Bilbo, almost made Thorin challenge him. Almost. Instead he contemplated all the unfortunate, and rather painful ways he wished the giant man would die. Therapeutic, that.

Being caught in Mirkwood, not seeing or knowing if anyone of his company was safe, was torture in a way he doubted the white worm that ruled those halls could ever understand. When Bilbo came to him, Thorin had been half mad, but the sound of his voice, like a ray of sun cutting through the clouds, tore his insanity apart.

Then they were out. They were out and Bilbo was the reason. Sure, the escape method was terrible, the plan faulty, and it was a miracle none suffered more than some scratches and partial drowning, but they were out. Thorin nearly proposed then and there.

But the halfling got ill, a cold. Dwarves rarely got ill. It was only as dwarflings they suffered such(unless a wound was involved, or poison), so any thoughts of marriage bells were roughly pushed out of his mind.

Bilbo become well enough at the end of their stay that he participated in the last feast they had. At which he drunk enough that when someone(had it been Kili?) asked him to sing, he did.

Thorin had felt like the world collapsed around him.

A chuckling brook, the light of a silver moon, a songbird.

Thorin felt bile rise. Bilbo was not merely his One, but his Heart-Singer as well. How could he ever atone for the crimes, for the way he had treated him through this entire quest? Bilbo had never deserved any of it, so how could Thorin ever say he deserved Bilbo after what he had done?

When Smaug had left, and Thorin shuffled through the treasures, the first thing he sought was not the Arkenstone, as everyone assumed. But a gift suitable as redemption. Well, no amount of mithril could ever make right of what he had done, but at least there would be some compensation. The mithril shirt, despite having been made for an elfling, was still too big some places, and too tight in others. It would have to be fitted, but it was a start.

Gold sickness was something all dwarves, of any line, were able to get. Especially when exposed to large amounts of it, after not seeing much at all. But it was a sickness that were generally easy to overcome. Just a few moments away, a breath of fresh air and the sickness would fade. It was not like that for the ruling line of Durin. It took you, slowly and without you noticing, coloured your perception and made everything else seem unimportant.

In the end, the Durin blood was stronger than the song of his heart, the call of his one. In the end, he held Bilbo above a deadly height, and almost threw him down it, because of it. Gandalf saved him from that, but in the end, Thorin should have just thrown Bilbo. It would have made Bilbo’s death quicker, less painful.

True, neither he, nor his (foolish) nephews would have lived, but perhaps it would have been better that way. Bilbo had come out of no where. His shoulder bearing a cut that had nearly torn his entire arm off(the mithril shirt was more ill fitted than Thorin had first thought), feet black and blue and covered in blood. Thorin was horrified by how much black and red painted the halfling. Bilbo snarled, like a cornered badger, and charged Azog the same way he had charged the orc set to kill Thorin on the cliff. Like Thorin, both then and now, Azog hit Bilbo with his club, sending the halfling flying. But unlike Thorin, Bilbo neither hit the ground, nor laid down. He twisted in the air, landed on his feet, crouching and then was at it again.

Again and again. Sometimes Bilbo would get a lucky hit, but most of the time he was sent flying. He’d slowed down too, which was perhaps why his last and sudden dash came so surprising that Bilbo actually got his sword into Azog's throat before the orcs club hit him. His’s grip on the  elven blade was tight enough that when he was hit, the sword followed him, accidentally decapitating Azog.

Bilbo hit the mud-blood-ground with a sickening squish and didn't get up.

Thorin had blacked out then, and the first words he spoke upon waking was a demand to see the halfling. Except, that wasn't possible. The halfling was dead, or as good as. Out of respect, he had been given the tent next to Thorin’s, but no one expected him to live the day. Oin had explained that the external damages, that on his shoulder, arms, head and feet, had been easily amenable, with a mixture of elven and dwarven medicine, but the internal damage, caused by having been hit so many times with Azog’s war club, could only be healed with elven magic. Magic the elves would not perform, as the hobbit’s very soul was in the process of leaving his body.

Thorin had thought Smaug and the loss of Erebor had been devastating. Had thought the insanity of his grandfather, his father, and their, as well as Frerin’s deaths had been devastating. Had thought the capture by the elves, and the lack of knowledge about his company’s health and whereabouts had been devastating. But none of these, or anything else for that matter, could ever compare to the knowledge that he had, substantially, murdered his One, his Heart.

Had Thorin listened to Bilbo’s desperate pleas, had torn away from the gold long enough to realise he was starving himself, and his men, he would have been healthier and better fit for battle, so that Bilbo had not needed to interfere, had not needed to be in the battle at all. Had he torn away from the gold, Bilbo would not have needed to steal the Arkenstone, and Thorin would not have banished him. Would not have unknowingly rejected him. Would not have unwittingly set Bilbo on a path of death.

Bilbo Baggins was dead, his body had just not caught up to it yet, and it was all because of Thorin Oakenshield.

He doubted he would ever forgive himself. Not for this.  

**Author's Note:**

> Craft vs Profession: here, a Profession can either be something you were born to be/do(like being a king), or something which you are particularly good at(like being a warrior), while a craft is something that earns a living(like blacksmithing, or welding).
> 
> Heir vs Spare: The heir is(usually) the first born male. He's going to inherit and that's that. The spare is second born, and isn't as important for the line as the heir is. The spare is, essentially, like an extra button or an extra horse shoe, only there in case something goes wrong and the original doesn't work out.
> 
> Edit 21.08.14: Some minor word exchanges and corrections. I'd also like to point out that whether Beorn actually had a crush on Bilbo or not, is not really important, as Thorin is not unable to believe a fly that accidentally crashed into Bilbo while they were riding, was attempting to hit on him. Thorin has it bad. Real bad. (But I totally think he did. I mean, Bilbo is this tiny, well mannered, cute little thing. Who wouldn't crush on him? Of course, it'd be the sort of "crush" people have on babies or cute animals. You know the one, where they coo, make baby voices and constantly gush about how insanely cute they are(like people do about celebs and boys)(Though Beorn is a little too old and dignified(if that is possible) to coo. Not openly, at least. And who knows if he's baby-voicing or not). Or, better yet, Beorn is a troll and did it because he knew it'd bother Thorin(and the other dwarfs) like nothing else. Beorn could probably refuse any aid, and it would not irritate Thorin as much as his "crush".)


End file.
